


what's it feel like to be a ghost.mp3

by hellbeast



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, 亜人 - 三浦追儺 & 桜井画門 | Ajin - Miura Tsuina & Sakurai Gamon
Genre: Barely Canon Compliant, CA:TWS AU, Dehumanization, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 06:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18190874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellbeast/pseuds/hellbeast
Summary: I'm real sorry, pal.The Shadow says. Its voice keeps warbling and crackling, full of static.But it looks like things just got alittlemore complicated.





	what's it feel like to be a ghost.mp3

**Author's Note:**

> i definitely thought i already uploaded this?? apparently not. hope y'all like trauma™

There is a new asset. Not a new Asset—because there is only one Asset, Designation: Winter Soldier—but there is a new presence that is not a Handler or a Scientist or a Doctor or a lesser asset Guard, and it remains at the Asset’s side at all times.

The new asset, Designation Unknown, is invisible. Or perhaps, it is just treated in the same manner as the Asset, ignored until needed. In either case, the Asset finds itself… curious. It has no protocols regarding assets that are not the Asset that are also not Handlers or Scientists or Doctors or lesser asset Guards.

The Asset does not know how to act outside of protocol. This issue must be resolved.

“Get in,” a Handler demands, waving a hand contemptuously at the Asset’s lodgings. The Asset complies.

 **Go fuck yourself** , the asset, Designation Unknown, spits. The Handler does not react. This, frustratingly, supports both of the Asset’s hypotheses. It decides to observe more until it can reach a viable conclusion.

The cryochamber smells of rust and cold and stress. Once the pneumatic door seals, the Asset can allow its body to shiver, out of sight from the Scientists and Doctors, who like to schedule surprise recalibrations. The other assets clear the room until it is empty.

Only the asset, Designation Unknown, remains.

 **God, I look like shit** , the asset, Designation Unknown, says into the silence.

 _Error: Unconfirmed_ , the Asset thinks.

The asset, Designation Unknown, does not look like anything. It has mass, like the Asset, with clearly defined proportions of Head-Torso-Arms-Legs, just as the Asset does, but the asset, Designation Unknown, has no discernible features. It is a roiling mass of shadow and dust. It clicks as it breathes—imitates respiration?—like the sounds of shivering, clattering mandibles, hollow chitin on hollow chitin.

 **You** , the asset, Designation Unknown, says, although it has no mouth. **You can see me?**

There are no others within the room that the Asset can see. It thus presumes that ‘you’ is being used in reference to itself. Not standard protocol, but within allowable parameters. The Asset recalibrates, appending the form of address as permissible referent to itself.

 _It can_ , the Asset thinks. It means to correct this and address the asset, Designation Unknown, with its mouth, as time has shown that other assets, lesser or otherwise, are not privy to the Asset’s internal dialogue, but the cryochamber hums and deploys the sedatives and the mouthpiece would impede the Asset’s speech anyway.

* * *

The Asset does not dream.

The Asset does not dream.

The Asset does not—

Arms, not flesh but not metal, black and diaphanous, dust and grit and form held tight under pressure. Arms that are not the Arm. Fingers, not pale from deficiency but gluttonous, devouring light and sound alike. One-two-three-four-five, pinky-ring-middle-index-thumb. A body that is not the Body—
    
    
      
    
    Error. Error. Error. Error—
    
    
    
    
    
    Recalibration failed.
    
    
    

There is a group of Scientists, they are talking, they are huddled over a table full of diagrams, charts, anatomical illustrations, x-rays—

“Here,” one says, drawing a pale finger from one point to another. “And then we make the incision—”

“—frontal lobotomy might—”

“—latest results from the vision test, we should consider an artificial nictitating membrane—”

 **no** , says a voice that is not the Voice. Is it not the Voice? Has the Asset’s voice ever held so much emotion in so short a word?

 **No** , says again the Voice. The body that is not the Asset’s body shakes, the chest that is not the Asset’s chest rumbles, the fingers that are not the Asset’s fingers curl.

One step. Another.

The Scientists are still huddled, whispering and scrawling messy notes, annotations, in the margins. A chart of the Asset, covered in red lines and circles.

It is easy. Almost gentle. Fingers that are not fingers, flesh that is not flesh, gouge deep and rapacious, spearing past ribs and into muscle and vein and organ tissue. Blood gushes and soaks deep into unending black shadow, and the Scientist gurgles. The Asset knows that sound.

“What—” begins another.

Faster now. Arms that are not the Asset’s arms but that work just as swiftly swing and fingers—claws—snatch flesh and draw blood and rend deep bloody tears. Gasps and chokes of air, words interrupted and sentences left unfinished. Blood. Blood. Chunks of fat and hot blood.

There are no more Scientists.

 **Fuck you!** The voice that is not the Asset’s voice screams. The body that is not the Asset’s body has no throat, but the voice grows hoarse anyway. There are flashes of light and a deep sound. The alarms. The Scientists are dead. The door slams open. Lesser asset Guards run in, guns at the ready.

One shot. There is no pain.

 _ **Fuck you!**_ The voice screams.

Again. Claws in flesh, tearing, pulling. Eight bullets. There is no pain. A leap, further than the Asset’s own body is capable of. The world turned inverse, claws punching deep into cement and brick, grabbing lesser asset Guards and twisting and screaming. More blood.

There are no more lesser asset Guards.

More alarms. More light. More noise. More guns. More bodies. More blood. More, more, more.
    
    
      
    
    F A L L  B A C K.
    
    
    
    
    
    E V A C U A T E.
    
    
    
    
    
    A W A K E N  T H E  A S S E T.
    
    
    

* * *

{

The Asset does not dream.

The Asset does not sleep.

The Asset does not dream.

The Asset does not—

There are lights. There are sounds. Alarms, screaming.

The cryochamber door is hanging ajar, secured by only one joint. There is a handprint smeared across the glass port in tacky half-dried blood.

"Send backup!" A Handler is hunched over a terminal, yelling into a communications device.

The Asset is in the cryochamber. Its mouth is dry, tongue laden and teeth filmy. Something has clearly gone wrong with the Reignition Sequence.

The Asset is not in the cryochamber. It has no mouth, no eyes, no face. It has hands full of blood and viscera and a chest full of rage.

"Stand down." There is another Handler. It is bleeding freely, red-brown blood drying into the crevices and dips of its hands.

Movement. A shadow. No. `Recalibrating.` A self. No.` Recalibrating.` The asset, Designation Unknown.

It looks. `Error. Error?`

Thin, wispy.
    
    
      
        
    
    null entity
    
    
    

**Fuckers,** the asset, Designation Unknown, growls. There is a sound like the dry snap of bone in open air, like leaves underfoot. It is constant, unending, a hundred thousand hits landing over and over again.

The asset, Designation Unknown, disintegrates. There is a jolt like a live wire running along the backs of the Asset's teeth.

There are alarms.

"Someone shut that fucking thing off," a Handler snaps, meaning the alarm or the Asset or both. Guards with guns. Scientists with syringes.

Then there is nothing.

}

* * *

The Asset does not dream.

The Asset does not dream.

The Asset does not dream.

The Asset awakens.

Cold, darkness, nothing. Light. Pain. Awareness.

“Up,” snaps a Handler. It looks nervous.

The pneumatic locks depressurize and the Asset pushes open the cover of its cryochamber.

"Out," the Handler commands. It is pale and its eyes dart from side to side. It smells of perspiration and uncertainty. This, the Asset knows, is fear. A common response to the Asset's presence, but usually not without provocation. The Handler licks its lips and wrings its hands.

"Your primary objective is to Protect," the Handler says.

Before the Asset can answer in the affirmative, movement catches its eye. There is something standing behind the Handler. Looming. Another asset, Designation Unknown.

 **Your primary objective is to Escape** , says the other asset, Designation Unknown.

“Error,” the Asset reports. “Operative Not Defined.”

The Handler freezes. The smell of perspiration increases.

“Operative Level Five,” the Handler stutters. It is shaking.

 **Operative Level Zero** , the other asset growls.

“Error,” the Asset reports. The Handler whimpers. “Operative Level Not Defined.”

The Handler screams—frantic nails catch skin—blood drips into the Asset’s eyes—

———

The Asset does not dream.

The Asset does not dream.

Another Handler. The other asset is there—here—as well.

``

Error. Operative Not Defined.

``

“Operative Level Alpha.”

**Operative Level Mu.**

``

`Error. Operative Level Not Defined.` Pain. Darkness. Blood.

Light.

Another face, the same looming shadow.

“Operative Level Glagoli.”

**Operative Level Dobro.**

Another.

Pain.

Another.

Pain.

Another.

Pain.

“Operative Level—”

**Operative Level—**

``

Error. Error. Error. Error—

``

The Asset does not dream.

Faces. Handlers. The other asset, unchanging.

“Your primary objective is to Protect,” says the Handler, says every Handler, says, says, says.

 **Your primary objective is to Eliminate.** The shadow with no face remains the same; Escape or Eliminate.

“Error.” Always an error. Always. “Operative Not Defined.”

The Handler, a Handler, every Handler whirls around. The Asset can smell the stink of its fear, the hectic beat of its heart, prey caught under the gaze of its end—

Anger. Bluster. “Another glitch?”

“I am your Handler, Operative Level—”

The other asset interrupts, voice smooth, **I am your Shadow, Operative Level ▇▇▇▇**

—static, there is no sound, the mouth shapes the words after they have burrowed their way into the Asset’s brain, desire, static and nothing and emptiness, train-car, static and static and pain, dark, light, `recalibrating… recalibrating…`

The Shadow has the necessary permissions to override all objectives, all protocols. All other assets have become lesser in the wake of the Shadow.

“Acknowledged.”

The lesser asset Handler scowls.

“About damn time—” It begins to say.

 **Eliminate,** the Shadow drawls, evenly.

The Asset snaps the lesser asset Handler’s neck. Easy as anything, bones like dry twigs in autumn.

The lesser lesser asset Guard posted at the door jumps. The stink of sweat, of fear, fingers close to triggers—too slow—too weak—

“Stand down!” It demands.

 **Eliminate,** the Shadow repeats.

The Asset catches three bullets in the Arm, they ricochet, the Asset grabs the gun by the muzzle and wrenches, the Asset collapses the trachea of the lesser lesser asset Guard with a quick strike of its metal palm. The lesser lesser asset Guard does not even have the chance to choke, press down even, snap the vertebrae.

A strobe of lights, persistent. The alarms. Slamming doors and the tromp of booted feet. The smell of gun oil, of sweat, of metal.

 **Escape** , the Shadow comes to stand beside the Asset. They are of a height, of a build. They are mirrors.

 **Eliminate as needed** , the Shadow says.

The Asset grabs the gun of the dead lesser lesser asset Guard. Checks its knives.

Melts into the shadows.

Disappears.

* * *
    
    
    INITIATING REMOTE SHUTDOWN...
    ERROR…
    COMMUNICATION FAILURE…
    INITIATE REBOOT…
    …
    REBOOTING….
    …
    REBOOTING…
    ...
    COMMUNICATION FAILURE...
    …
    INITIATING RECALIBRATION…
    ...
    RECALIBRATING...
    ...
    RECALIBRATING...
    ...
    RECALIBRATING...
    ...
    RECALIBRATING...
    ...
    

* * *

The Asset does not dream.

The Asset does not dream.

There is no Operative. There is no lesser asset Handler.

There—

A face. Familiar. Who—

Blonde hair—blue eyes—broad shoulders—the smell of gasoline, the weight of the Arm, the heft of the rocket launcher—moonlight in thin strips, cool tile beneath its feet, a dry hand offering an empty glass—the fiberglass chassis of the car crumples beneath the Arm, the Asset pulls a knife from its side and—soft words, kind words—cold hands, skinny limbs—overhead strike, block, brace and redirect the momentum, jab, twist, reverse grip, jab, duck, pivot—knobby fingers stained with charcoal—the mask is gone, fallen, there is the sting of air against the bare skin of the Asset’s face, lips part in surprise, blue eyes widen—

_Bucky?_

``

`Error. Error. Fatal Error.`

“The man on the bridge,” the Asset says haltingly. The man on the bridge, the man on the bridge. The Asset is trembling, shaking, can think of nothing but the man on the bridge.

 **He's alive,** the Shadow says, voice soft. It's a mass of dust and shadow, too scattered to take its usual shape. **He's _alive_.**

“What?” The Director demands, and the sound of his voice, snake scale over rock, brings an unfamiliar terror.

No, not unfamiliar. Unexpected. When is the last time the Asset felt fear? When is the last time the Asset felt?

“The man on the bridge,” the Asset repeats, because it knows no better. “I knew him.”

 **Steve, oh Stevie, what did we _do_ ,** the Shadow moans. It's voice dips in and out like a warped recording.

 _Steve_ , the Asset nearly says. It holds its tongue. It tucks the name somewhere deep, where the Handlers and the Scientists and the Director have not yet learned to reach. Steve. Stevie. The man on the bridge. Steve.

The Director’s fingers are cold against the Asset's jaw. Tight.

“But I knew him.” It slips out, unbidden. The man on the bridge. The Asset knew him. The man knew the Asset—no. The man knew the Shadow. The Shadow is a person. The man knew it.

“Wipe it,” the director tells the nearest Handler.

**No, no, don't you touch him, you motherfucker—**

The world slides sideways into red.

A breath. Lungs. Beating heart, light harsh against eyes, sweat clinging to skin. The Asset is—is—is—The Asset is.

Blood, again. Pain, against the walls, the floors, the bodies. There is something red and clumpy jamming the plates of the Asset's fingers and palm.

 **Hey, hey,** a voice says. It is small—no, it is loud and thin—no, the blood—no, what? What? Where is he—the Director—wipe it— **don't you touch him** —but I knew him—the man on the bridge— **oh Stevie what did we _do_** —`Error. Recalibrating———Error. Recalibration unsuccessful. Error. Error. ERROR—`

`ERR—`

Pain.

Dark.

Light.

The Asset blinks. Its vision clears. Its head rings. The Asset blinks.

 **Sorry,** a voice says. It fades in and out like a malfunctioning speaker. Like an old radio that cold fingers never managed to tune. **You started seizing.**

The Asset realizes that it is on the ground, staring up at the harsh fluorescent lights of the lab ceiling. Its head is still ringing, the echo of a scream distant in its ears.

 **We need to go.** The Asset finally places the voice. It is the Shadow. The Asset turns its head; the Shadow is hunched down, crouching. Its head—humanoid but featureless—is tilted to the side.

 **I'm real sorry, pal.** The Shadow says. Its voice keeps warbling and crackling, full of static. **But it looks like things just got a _little_ more complicated.**


End file.
